


Crush

by Anjali_Organna



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:32:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjali_Organna/pseuds/Anjali_Organna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last fall, she’d justified her reaction to the Flash by comparing it to having a crush on a movie star: it was harmless, since nothing would ever come of it. He was a superhero, for god’s sake, and yeah, he might be flirting with her, and she might be feeling a little giggly about it all, but it wasn’t real. Even his “What other girls?”, as thrilling as that had been, must have been just a line, something he knew would make her smile, make her feel good.</p><p>She knows now, of course, that it wasn’t just a line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crush

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick sketch to fill in part of the two weeks where Eddie was missing, between 1x21 and 1x22, and work out some of the things Iris must be thinking about, now that ~she knows~.

After Eddie disappears, Iris thinks about going back to her dad’s. In the end, however, she decides against it; she still needs some space from Barry and from her dad. She also wants to be at home in case Eddie comes back. She doesn’t sleep in their bed, however; she’s not willing to torture herself that much. 

That first week, Barry stops by every night on his way out to search the city, telling her what quadrant he’s concentrating on. She has a map and draws careful X’s through each section as he makes his way through it. He’s always in his Flash suit, and she has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it, the way she had wanted to do—before. She's sure that he would let her, which is why she resists. 

Now that she knows, she feels like an idiot, because looking at him in the suit—it’s so painfully obvious. She can’t believe she never saw it. The way he moves, the way he holds himself, the fall of his hands as he talks to her. At first she castigates herself, thinks bitterly about how she couldn’t even recognize the person she thought she’d known so well. How she must not have really known him at all. 

But then she thinks, _No._ Both Barry and Joe had lied to her face, and she’d had no reason not to trust them. If she’s guilty of anything, it’s trusting them too much, a mistake she doesn’t intend to repeat ever again, no matter how much they tell her they’re committed to being above board from here on out. It hurts, losing that innocence, but Iris can’t stomach the alternative. She’s not going to be the naive little girl any more. She’s not willing to let any of the men in her life continue to make decisions for her. 

She’d told Barry that she was going to stop thinking about—about them—but the truth is, now that she knows, there’s one more thing she has to examine: the way that the Flash had flirted with her. And the way that it had made her feel. There. She’s admitted it, if only to herself. 

Last fall, she’d justified her reaction to him by comparing it to having a crush on a movie star: it was harmless, since nothing would ever come of it. He was a superhero, for god’s sake, and yeah, he might be flirting with her, and she might be feeling a little giggly about it all, but it wasn’t _real._ Well, _he_ was real, but Iris couldn’t fathom a world in which, to repeat, a freaking _superhero_ actually felt anything for her. She was just a blogger. She was no one special. Even his _What other girls?,_ as thrilling as that had been, must have been just a line, something he knew would make her smile, make her feel good.

She knows now, of course, that it wasn’t just a line. It’s ironic that the most nakedly honest Barry has ever been with her came when he was wearing a mask. The strange thing is, she doesn’t actually find it hard to reconcile her physical reaction to the Flash with her emotional response to Barry. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t know the breadth of Barry’s shoulders, the strength of his back, the grace in his hands. It just took a red suit to make her see it properly. Given everything else that’s going on, the thought is aggravating. 

One night after he comes back from another search empty-handed, she asks him, “Why’d you do it?”

He drops down on the couch, twitching the blanket she’s been sleeping under out of the way. His cowl is pushed back and his hair is ruffled. “Do what?”

“Talk to me the way that you did. At Jitters.” She’s tired and upset and part of her wants to put him on the defensive. It’s not fair that she’s the one adrift in his sea of revelations. 

He knows immediately what she’s talking about, looks at her, eyes open and steady. “You know why, Iris,” he says quietly, not at all flustered. Iris jumps up, unable to meet his eyes. “Do you want any coffee?” she asks. 

He sighs now, dropping his head, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “No. Thank you. Iris—if I’d told you last year who I was, would that have made a difference?”

He remains in that position, head in his hands, and this time it is Iris who understands what he’s asking. And as hurt as she still is, this is Barry and she doesn’t, truly, want to hurt him back. So she doesn’t say, _I guess we’ll never know._ Instead she replies gently, “You know it’s not that simple.”

“Yeah.” He smiles crookedly at her then, and a pang goes through Iris at the sight of it. He looks around the living room, his eyes catching on the two photos sitting on a shelf nearby. The framed photo of the two of them that she’d taken with her when she left her dad’s house is obscured by an unframed snapshot of her and Eddie. She’s been meaning to buy a frame for that one, had simply propped it against the glass covering the other photo so she didn’t lose it. 

Barry swallows. Iris quickly crosses the room, pulling the snapshot off of the glass. Behind her, she can hear him breathe out.

“It’s not what you think,” she begins, turning around, and is surprised when he chuckles. “I know,” he says, calm again. “It’s just a photo, Iris.” She’s further surprised when he comes close and gathers her in his arms. “It’s going to be okay.”

They haven’t touched since she found out. She relaxes into him, into the familiarity of his body next to hers, and absurdly, against all the odds, finds herself believing him.


End file.
